Джеймс Суэйн - The Man Who Cheated Death

Dear Reader,

A computer is like an attic; sometimes you find things hidden in them that you thought were forever lost.

This novel was written many years ago, then disappeared (or so I thought) when files were being transferred from an old computer to a new one. Recently, I found the manuscript on my laptop, reread it, and was reminded how much I enjoyed the story.

The Man Who Cheated Death deals with two of my favorite topics, Magic and Murder. It’s been updated and polished, and is now for you to enjoy as well.

Best,

James Swain

The telephone call early Friday morning was just what Sybil Blanchard had been waiting for. It was Saul, her agent, and he had a part for her. Not a big one he cautioned, but a part, and it was in a pilot television movie that Lorimar was trying to option to one of the networks for a series. Sybil would play a preppie virgin fresh out of Barnard who rooms with two aspiring actresses in Greenwich Village. The role was tiny, but if the pilot sold her character would stay in the series, and she would again be acting full time. Hanging up the phone, she had let out a Yipee, then opened the refrigerator and poured herself a victory tumbler of Taylor jug Chablis.

Sybil believed in herself and her ability as an actress. When she had first arrived in Hollywood that belief had somehow lifted her above thousands of other aspiring actors, and in two months landed her a bit movie role, and then a juicy part in successful mini-series. One night at a restaurant in Venice a palm reader had predicted that Sybil would be nominated for an Academy Award, and this had prompted Sybil to buy a used Jaguar and rent an oversized apartment in Glendale, convinced she was one role away from breaking into the big time.

That had been four years ago. Almost overnight her initial streak of luck had ended, and despite hundreds of auditions and cattle calls, she had been unable to land another role since. At first she had felt betrayed — like she had lost a lover — then the black clouds had rolled in. She’d grown despondent, and began to seriously doubt if she really had “it.” Was that special intangible element really there, or wasn’t it?

“I have ‘it,’ ” she had told herself for months, chanting it silently to herself like a mantra. Her spirits had slowly lifted, and through alcohol, summer stock, waiting tables, Valium, doing voiceovers for Saturday morning cartoons, and an occasional CARE envelope with a hundred dollar check from the National Bank of Idaho, she had managed to survive and not lose hope.

“To Spago,” she toasted, clinking her tumbler to the imitation crystal chandelier in her kitchen. “May I never wait on another table, drop another plate of green pasta, or be stiffed by another celebrity again.”

With a defiant toss she sent the tumbler flying through the doorway into the dining room, gouging a hole in the plasterboard wall the size of a child’s fist. You’re in big trouble now, she thought, and was overcome by a paralyzing fit of the giggles.

Sybil poured herself another glass of wine, then poured it back into the jug, fixed herself coffee, and put a George Winston compact disc on the stereo. An airy piano composition filled the nearly furnitureless apartment. Leafing through the phonebook on the kitchen counter, she vividly recalled his sold-out concert at the Hollywood Bowl a few weeks ago. A renegade hipster, Winston had looked resplendent in his tattered Levis and faded flannel shirt, his shoes left somewhere backstage as he padded out in white woolen socks. Acknowledging the applause with a barely heard “Thanks,” he sat down at the shiny grand. The next two hours Sybil had spent in the clouds, looking for new avenues to free her consciousness. His playing was an uncanny blend of classical and jazz and in the smoky autumn night it had sounded like an exotic foreign language. Sybil, knowing it was ridiculous, had likened him to Ghandi.

She got busy on the phone. Her character in the pilot was twenty-two, and that was going to take some work. The director wanted her hair cut short, and she also needed a facial, a manicure and a pedicure. Luckily she went to aerobics and didn’t need to starve herself to fit into a size six. Getting an appointment at Arden was a minor battle compared to the resistance she got from Kenneth, her hairdresser.

“Sybil honey, look at a calendar,” he admonished a minute later, a hairdryer purring in the background. “Today is Friday, Black Friday around here. The weekend is upon us. How about something sensible? Say Tuesday at three-thirty?”

“This is life and death,” she pleaded. “I got a part in a pilot. We start on Monday morning, seven a.m., and I need some major repairs. You have to squeeze me in. I’m on my knees, Kenneth.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake stop whining.” His voice carried across the salon. “Sirge, anyone drop for this afternoon? She did?” He spoke into the receiver. “You lucked out, babe. Come by at one, and I’ll make you young again.”

“You’re an angel.” Sybil hung up, and let her clenched fist slowly uncoil. She was not beautiful, and without a good cut, and the usual paint and hairspray, she couldn’t pass as even middling attractive. The phone rang, and before the answering machine in the bedroom could pick up, she answered it. The line was dead.

In the shower she weighed who to call first with her good news. Rex, her significant other, would probably suggest an intimate dinner spread out on a blanket on Venice beach; a would be Bo Goldman, he’d been banging out scripts for years, and in an act of artistic self-preservation had once wallpapered his apartment bathroom with rejection slips. She would also have to call numerous girlfriends, and eventually her Dad, who she hadn’t spoken to in a month. He was a partner in a small law firm in Ketchum, Idaho, and was of the firm belief that the United States was tilted and everything that wasn’t tightly screwed down had slid into southern California. Last Christmas he had sent a card and a plane ticket back home, his message painfully clear. Her good news would not make him happy, and she decided to call him on the weekend when the rates were cheaper.

Getting out of the shower, she heard the lingering piano trailing through her apartment, but not the buzzer. Drying off, she put on a robe, and heard the buzzer’s second ring. In the hall she hit the Talk button on the intercom.

“Yes?”

“Delivery for Sybil Blanchard.”

That would be the script from the studio. “Leave it on the floor beneath the mailboxes.”

“You have to sign for it.”

“Oh.” She touched her damp head. “Can you come back?”

“Flowers will die in the truck.”

“Flowers?” She hesitated. Who sent flowers? Certainly not Rex; he was into trashy lingerie, edible undergarments, and giant dildos tied with pink bows. Maybe they were from Saul. His way of saying nice going, you did it.

“Roses,” the deliveryman said.

“No kidding.” How theatrical. She smiled to herself and imagined that she was actually glowing. Her finger hit the electronic door release and left a wet smudge. “Bring them up.”

Sybil imagined the deliveryman cursing the ancient elevators as she brushed her hair in the bathroom. A tingling sensation had made her face aglow, and she suspected it was more than just the news, or her agent’s premature accolades. Her life was straightening itself out, finally moving forward again, on the road toward full potential, no more wayside stops. She had known it would happen, but not knowing when had always disturbed her. Every six months she erased her earnings at a self-awareness camp in Arizona where she learned to channel her energy and resources toward the eventual realization of her own being. Although it sounded odd, she was becoming herself , or as her spiritual instructor put it “growing into you” and right now she felt more in harmony with her emotions, and in better control of her own destiny, than she had since childhood.